


Midnight Callers

by omg_okimhere



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_okimhere/pseuds/omg_okimhere
Summary: This is a very short snapshot, based on prompts from within the Tumblr fandom, for a writing challenge.  It features Bennet within the fix-it narrative I created in the long tale "A Man Reborn".
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Midnight Callers

Pop – Thwack!

Golden effervescence erupts from the bottle’s neck like a pent-up volcano, threatening to soak the polka-dot sleeve of Bennet’s pajamas; meanwhile Francine laughingly ducks the cork ricocheting off the ceiling. It clips the star atop the heavily-festooned Christmas tree, before disappearing into a corner.

“Happy New Year!” chokes out the former police detective to his bride, once their giggling subsides. 

From the mantelpiece, Francine plucks two tall flutes and steadies them while her husband pours. The hands of the clock that drapes the hearth shelf point midnight; the crackling fireplace lends a warm glow to the room, staving off the chill of the Welsh coast in winter. 

Eyes moist with emotion, Bennet leans in for a tender kiss.

“To a new year,” he murmurs.

“And a new life,” responds Francine softly, placing a hand on her very rotund belly. As one, the lovers sip the sweet sparkling liquid, savoring the sense of indulgence as much as the imported French libation itself.

Ere the tingle has yet left their tongues, the insistent pitter patter of little feet at her skirts draws Francine’s eye down.

“Why thank you, Stormy!” she smiles. With his entire body wriggling in eagerness, the couple’s adopted Corgi proudly presents the errant cork to his mistress. Being the one more able to bend from the waist at the moment, Bennet crouches and accepts the dog’s prize.

“Good boy,” he intones fondly, engulfing the furry head in his rough hands and massaging those enormous ears.

Ears that catch the sound on the porch a split second before the bell rings. Exploding in excited barking, Stormy races to the front door, nails clicking on the wooden floor. He leaves behind two startled humans.

“Who on earth?!” blurts Francine, staring first down the hallway and then at Bennet.

“And at this hour!” he grumbles, annoyed. Devoid of haste, he pauses to straighten the five pointed ornament on the holiday evergreen enroute to the portal.

“It could be an emergency of some kind,” posits Francine uncertainly, as she pulls her dressing gown closed as well as she can.

Venting a dubious snort, Bennet grabs his trench coat from the rack and shrugs it over his whimsical nightwear. As he cinches the belt, he peers through the glass side panels into the darkness.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, unbolting the locks.

“Happy New Year, Benito!” drawls a familiar face with hat tipped back jauntily. “You gonna let us in, or should we freeze to death out here?” In one arm, Jackson cradles a magnum of champagne, with the other he encircles his wife’s shoulders.

“Forgive us,” Susan says sheepishly. “We intended to surprise you.”

“That you did,” interjects Bennet in a wry aside.

Susan ignores him. “We would have been here much sooner, but the carriage threw a wheel under the bridge.” She flashes her most disarming smile. “And we heard you might have need of a birthing doctor soon?”

Exclaiming delightedly, Francine rushes forward to embrace her friend, drawing Susan inside. Over her shoulder, she chides her husband, “Close the door, Ben! It’s freezing!”

Heads together, the two women move into the main room, trailed happily by Stormy. Gentle chatter drifts back, the first notes of news -- of Connor, of Leman Street, of London.

The two men stare at one another for a few more seconds, while the cold air continues to rush in.

“Figured you’d still be up – a closet romantic like you,” teases Jackson. Hiding a merry twist of his mouth, Bennet makes a grand gesture and opens the portal a fraction wider. Belatedly, Jackson notes his friend’s odd attire. “Were you going out?”

Looking down, Bennet falters his words. “No…yes…You have bags outside?” As though he had dressed for that very purpose.

“Around the corner.” Jackson looks for a place to set his bottle of bubbly, but by the time he finds one, Bennet already has the two satchels deposited safely beside the entrymat, and the egress to the cold snugly closed.

“It’s good to see you, mate,” Bennet relents, clapping the doctor on the back. “Will you indeed stay until after the baby is born?” He has had his private worries, evidenced by the pinched lines across his forehead.

“That is my intention,” replies Jackson. “You have a midwife lined up?”

Bennet nods. “Woman from the village. She is said to be skilled, but if anything were to go wrong…” He leaves the thought unformed, the words unsaid.

“I’ll be here,” Jackson assures the older man. “Now – where do you keep your glassware? This bottle needs to be decanted before it loses its chill.”


End file.
